The Paternal Predecessor Paradox
by The Blue Fenix
Summary: Ten years before she met the Middleman, the teenaged Wendy's father and his DC-3 disappeared under mysterious and as-yet-unexplained circumstances. The explanation shakes both their professional and personal relationship. Also, human race in peril.
1. Chapter 1

The Paternal Predecessor Paradox

Chapter One

Wendy Watson's cell rang as she was changing clothes at the end of a long fighting-evil work day. She glanced at the readout and grinned. "Mom! I was thinking about calling you. The thing is, next month..."

The smile faded away. "Mom?" She sank onto a locker room bench without looking behind her. Her shoulders sagged. "Sure, but can I...." She listened. "They're sure? When?" The answer took more life out of her.

The Middleman had been busy on the other side of the room, but her sudden mood change was impossible to miss. He came into her field of view, waited until she met his eyes before he sat beside her. Her hand was clammy, trembling a little. It clung to his. He'd seen her face imminent death with more composure. Wendy mouthed _Dad_; she was too absorbed in listening to the telephone for more.

The Middleman felt the same chill. _Her father's DC-3 crashed under mysterious and as-yet-unexplained circumstances when she was fourteen_. That loss had shaped every part of Wendy's life, from her fierce self-reliance to her occasional moments of despair. There wasn't the slightest chance of good news, from her expression.

Something her mother said brought the tears into the open. "Yeah. I ... absolutely. Do you need me to..." She rubbed her face on her shirt sleeve. "As soon as you get your flight information. Any time. I will." She fumbled with the telephone, got it shut off. She turned to him, swallowed. "Listen, that was my mom. She says, she got this call, they were just doing a sonar survey but..." The words slid out of control into a sob.

The Middleman put an arm around her shoulders. Dubbie's voice froze up entirely. She gulped air and let it out in a wordless sound of pain. He had guesses, but she needed to tell this her way. "They found it. My dad's plane. The Navy. In about fifty feet of water, not far down the coast from here... he never got out. They found his body. He was dead the whole time."

"I'm so sorry, Dubbie." All anyone could say. The Middleman didn't mistake it for a helpful comment.

She hid her face in his shoulder. Fisted two handfuls of his jacket in sudden anger. "I feel so _stupid_. I mean, of course. If he could have come home he would, he loves us. Loved us. I'm sure Mom got a grip on that years and years ago. But I wanted to think that maybe, someday ..."

"That's not stupid. It's very human."

She took in another shaky breath, sat up straighter. "I've got to deal. In a way, it's handy... God, is that why I came back to California? Because that's where he was stationed when we lost him, and I somehow thought being close .... anyway. They've got the, the, _everything_ at the Naval base south of here. They want to tell Mom about it in person, me too I guess. It's gonna help that I live here. Mom's flying out, she doesn't know when yet. She's going to call ... I guess she'll stay at the sublet while she's here. Me too." She looked up. "I'm not trying to hide you. I'd never do that. But she can't, we can't be here..."

"I've lost people too." Including both his parents, which she knew. "Whatever help you need, a lot or a little, I'm here."

"I need Lacey. She and mom are close too, she's got to know." Wendy's expression shifted. "I mean, I need you too. Always. It's just that..."

"Of course. Lacey's always been there for you. I'll take you home."

----

At the airport, two days later, Wendy was able to function without bursting into tears. Lacey and the Middleman had set up a wordless duty rotation; they hadn't left her alone once unless she asked to be. Art Crawl members kept coming to the sublet with herbal teas and chi-balancing crystals and hot food. She'd gotten some sleep both nights. The first night, on the Middleman's shoulder on the sublet couch. The second, in their own bed clutching him like an outsized teddy bear. He didn't offer more. Wendy had wondered if her jittery, red-eyed self didn't attract him. Realized finally that whatever other gaps the Middleman had in his social experience, he knew all about sudden loss.

She took one last glance at him as her mother's flight was announced. Getting the Middleman into civilian clothes was still hard work. But he'd left off the jacket and gun belt, loosened the tie and rolled his sleeves up. The result looked like somber business casual, nothing to attract attention. Wendy had changed her uniform for her church-and-job-interview skirt suit so they weren't dressed too much alike.

Wendy had always meant to introduce her mom and her beloved. She'd never expected this kind of first meeting. "Mom's cool, really," she said in an undertone. "I told her you speak Spanish. But don't go out of your _way_ to use it, sometimes that comes across bad. And don't tell her you paid for my car. Not so much of the "Ghosts of the Living, Dubbie!' kind of stuff. She's the best mom in the world, but this is a real bad week. Things like..."

"'I can't tell you my name or what I do, but I enjoy sleeping with your daughter?' That sort of thing?"

Wendy stared, her cheeks burning with embarrassment shading to anger. Then she read his deadpan expression, and choked with helpless laughter. "Something like that."

"I promise I won't embarrass you." The Middleman's hand only rested lightly on her arm, but it felt like a will-to-live transfusion. "You'll get through this." He didn't mean her meet-the-parent nerves.

"I know. And having you back me up ... God knows if I could have handled this a year ago." Wendy squeezed his hand.

She recognized her mother's walk from too far away to recognize faces. The next second Wendy was running without planning it, her inner five-year-old bolting for the only safety in the world. The past had such a grip on her that she was surprised when Mom's chin only reached her shoulder. "Mama." Her mother had worn the same perfume all Wendy's life. Breathing it now, adult-Wendy barely kept her child-self from crying again.

"Sweetie." Mom had a catch in her breath, too. Wendy felt her shift, look up. "Manners, dear." Mom patted her on the shoulder and slid out of the hug.

The Middleman had caught up to them and stopped a few feet off. Wendy was surprised all over again at how someone his height and width could fade into the background. A sleight-of-body-language that projected _this isn't about me_ like a deflector shield. Now he closed the gap, held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watson. I'm Mike Middler, from Wendy's job." Bald-faced lying, though, not so much. They'd practiced that one.

Mom shook hands. "Please. I'm Inez. Thank you for picking me up; you've been such a help to Wendy at a time like this." _And you'd damn well better stay that way_ was in her tone, but barely a nuance. Wendy remembered a prom date who hadn't been so lucky. "I was afraid we wouldn't get to the base in time for the appointment."

"Plenty of time." The Middleman took her luggage as if it weighed next to nothing.

----


	2. Chapter 2

The Paternal Predecessor Paradox

Chapter Two

The Middlemobile had gotten a similar low-key disguise, mostly closing off interior panels and controls that a normal car wouldn't have. Nobody spoke much. Wendy, in the back seat beside her mother, wondered what they were thinking about each other. Mom looked different -- smaller, older -- and it wasn't all from the news about Dad. Her Cuban accent had worn away almost completely, at least in English. That part certainly hadn't happened overnight. Wendy felt bad that she'd taken her mother so much for granted. Mom had never tried to keep her close to home; she'd been the biggest fan of Wendy's art ambitions. But Wendy felt guilty, looking back, over how little time they'd spent together in the last few years. Having Dad's death a certainty instead of a guess reminded her that eventually she'd lose Mom, too.

At the Naval base, they were met by a polite noncom who looked ridiculously young even to Wendy. He escorted them to a conference room. "I'm sorry for your loss. Please make yourselves comfortable, Dr. Crane will be here in a few minutes. Would you like some coffee?" He was talking to the Middleman.

Who turned to Wendy's mom instead of answering. "We'll be fine, thank you," she said. Their guide left, looking flustered.

The older woman looked at him thoughtfully. Wendy kept her expression carefully neutral. This part had a terror all its own, getting Mom and the Middleman together with time for casual small talk. "Wendy thinks very highly of you." Mom let the statement hang. That and the Maternal Look of Mind-Reading had worked on teenaged Wendy long before her adult self learned it was an interrogation technique.

The Middleman knew that trick, of course. He also didn't have memories of kindergarten intimidating him. "I think very highly of Wendy," he answered. "Professionally as well as personally. She's smart, self-assured, valiant..."

"Hmm. Does her job call for valor very often?" Mom asked sweetly.

Wendy smiled a little, not looking at either of them. _Direct hit! And __you__ thought we didn't need to build a whole cover story in advance._

Luckily, she'd gotten her way on that point. "It's true that our consulting firm does quite a bit of investigation and security work," The Middleman said with hardly a pause. "Specifics about our clients are confidential, but that much is no secret."

Wendy winced slightly. _Damn improvisation. Might as well have said 'honestly, I'm not lying.'_ "They're not all confidential," she said lightly. There was that time we were doing concert security for Varsity Fan Club when they toured here. And the product safety research when they test-marketed that new diet energy drink. '!!!!'" She did the gesture. "The inventor used rainforest-based ingredients, trying to be trendy, but it wasn't actually very good. Fishy aftertaste."

"We have a consultant relationship with the fashion house Famuse," he added, leaving out who consulted for who. "The designer, Roxy Wasserman, has developed a real respect for Wendy's intelligence and determination."

"Just stuff," Wendy said. "If you're picturing me chasing bank robbers and murderers, some CSI thing, it's not like that at all." _It's a hell of a lot stranger._ Wendy focused on how much she loved her work, instead of how dangerous it was, and hoped her sincerity came out in her body language. _Nobody can push your buttons like your Mom. Because she installed them._

Mom looked doubtful but not quite able to spot the catch. "You're still painting, I hope?"

Wendy was happy for one she could answer without reservation. "Pretty much every day. I've done seven big canvases in the last two months. And there was a gallery showing a while back, three pieces sold." Only one had _stayed_ sold, after Pip the building owner's son confessed he'd copied her work, but that was irrelevant. "The job's good for my art. I meet so many different kinds of people, I'm up to my elbows in new ideas."

The door creaked; they turned and saw two middle-aged men in uniform. "Mrs. Watson?" the older said. "I'm Dr. Crane, the pathologist. I'm very sorry for your loss. This is Captain Hedison, who's also investigating the crash."

More introductions; Wendy noticed again that the Middleman was subtly keeping himself in the background. They settled facing each other across the conference table. Wendy's mom sat directly opposite the two Navy men, Wendy beside her; the Middleman took a seat by Wendy and a bit back from the table.

The pathologist opened a manila folder and arranged several sheets of paper in front of him with nervous fingers. "I should say first, Mrs. Watson, Miss Watson, that we will not be asking you to positively identify the remains that the salvage crew found. We were able to confirm all that from Captain Watson's medical and dental records, as well as the markings on the plane itself. The remains we found, ma'am, were essentially skeletal. You're free to see them, but it won't be ... as far as any personal connection..."

Her chin came up. "I understand, doctor. All that was pretty much implied when we were told he'd been underwater. But what can you ..." Her composure shifted for the first time; she wrapped her fingers around Wendy's. "How did Peter die? Did he suffer?"

The doctor's eyes were compassionate. "Not that we can tell, ma'am. He was still belted into the pilot's seat, no broken bones. No sign he tried to get loose. Without soft tissue I can't give you sure answers, but hitting the water at that speed could easily knock the passengers unconscious even in seat belts. My reading is that your husband died on impact, or was badly concussed and drowned. I doubt he had any idea what was happening."

She nodded. "That is a comfort. When will we be able to take him home?"

Dr. Crane looked uncomfortable. "That falls into Captain Hedison's jurisdiction."

The other man hadn't said much -- doing a watch-and-wait of his own, Wendy realized -- since he arrived. Now he leaned forward a little. "I'm sure you remember, Mrs. Watson, that your husband's disappearance was investigated at the time," Hedison said. "Mostly from the standpoint of mechanical failure. He was flying a fifty-year-old aircraft, after all. He and the other pilots at his naval air station had been restoring and maintaining the plane in their spare time over the previous several years. He was one of ten or twelve men who flew the DC-3 to various air shows, for community outreach, as their schedules allowed. There was no thought at the time other than that he'd been unlucky enough to be the one flying when the plane broke down."

Wendy's mother sat up a little straighter. "At the time," she repeated. More than suppressed grief was flattening her tone, now. Wendy started to feel afraid.

Captain Hedison met her eyes steadily. "Yes, ma'am. At the time. As Dr. Crane says, the medical facts are nothing unexpected. As far as the mechanical condition of the aircraft, we can't tell what brought it down -- it wasn't likely we could have, after that many years in salt water. But we do know that he was a couple of hundred miles off his registered flight plan. And ... it was your husband's intention to fly alone that day?"

"Of course. I told them so at the time."

"Yes, ma'am. I've read the original report, your deposition was very clear. But he wasn't alone. Another man was found in the plane with him, an armed man. One we haven't been able to identify either by his effects or by medical records."

"That's impossible. All of his friends were there, at the funeral and afterward; no one else disappeared along with him." Wendy's mother bit her lip. "Armed. Are you suggesting that Peter's plane was hijacked?"

"That's one possibility, ma'am." Hedison didn't sound like he believed it. "But the gun was in the second man's holster, not in his hand or loose in the plane. We have to look at other theories. Think back, Mrs. Watson. It's been a long time, but did anything your husband said, anything about his manner suggest he was doing more than taking a vintage craft to an air show?"

Wendy was trying to remember too. Age fourteen was old enough to retain clear detail, but she hadn't focused on the same things an adult would have. One more of Dad's business trips hadn't meant as much to her as the chances of going to the movies on Saturday in spite of a bad math grade. Until he didn't come home, and her world was never the same again.

"This is silly," Wendy said. "Dad was just a naval aviator, the plane was just a plane. What reason would some guy with a gun have for picking on him?"

"A surprising number of DC-3's are still in service today," Hedison said. "They were simple but they were rugged -- efficient, reliable, easy to repair and operate. Under modern conditions... one factor is that they fly low and slow compared to almost anything built in the last forty years. That can make them hard to detect, for civilian air-traffic control that isn't expecting them."

Wendy gripped the table edge in front of her. "What are you suggesting?" she snarled. Glanced at her mother. "Sorry, Mom. He's just making it sound ..."

"Don't be sorry, dear." Mom fixed her eyes on Captain Hedison, too. "It's a very good question."

He stood up to the glare. "I can't ignore the context. Many of the DC-3s still in operation are used by smugglers."

"Peter would never have been involved with something like that." She wasn't shaken, only angry. "You can't tell me you found drugs in his plane."

"No, ma'am. Nor any other contraband," Hedison admitted. "But taking an armed, unknown passenger to an unknown destination looks ... questionable. It's my duty to clear this up, as much as we can this many years after the fact."

"My husband served his country all his life. He was a good man, an honorable man. You can't question that."

Captain Hedison had a briefcase on his side of the conference table. He opened it. "Mrs. Watson, do you remember if your husband was wearing a watch the day he disappeared? An unusual one?"

Wendy's mother relaxed a bit at the less menacing question. "He wore a waterproof watch. But it was perfectly ordinary."

"Is this it?" Hedison took out a clear, labeled evidence bag and laid it on the table.

He was looking for a shocked reaction, Wendy realized later. But he was looking in the wrong direction. Wendy's mother looked at the bulky, chromed device with complete and honest non-recognition. "No, I've never seen that at all. I'd have remembered."

Wendy stared blankly for a few seconds before she got control of herself. She let her right arm fall loosely down the side of her chair, so that the sleeve of her suit jacket covered her Middlewatch. The watch identical in every detail to the one her father had worn when he died. _Don't look at him. It would be dumb dumb DUMB to do that right now._ But the Middleman was going to be very sorry when she had a chance to talk freely. _You know what my dad meant to me. Not just what you read in my dossier; __I__ told __you__. I trusted you._

Captain Hedison was still looking at her mother. "We haven't been able to trace the manufacturer. It got our attention, you see, because the second man was wearing one too." Another clear evidence bag laid out on the table.

"I'm afraid I can't help you. If he'd broken his watch on the trip, I suppose he'd buy a new one." Wendy's mother sat up stiff and square. "That's not a crime, as far as I know."

The Middleman had his hands in his lap, below the edge of the table. When they came up again his left wrist was bare. "I couldn't help noticing," he said mildly. Hedison and the pathologist started, as if they'd forgotten he was there. "Captain. You never said who you work for. You told us you're investigating, but not under whose authority." The look in his eyes didn't go with the unassertive tone.

Hedison looked not only suspicious but abashed, as if he'd been hoping not to answer that question. "ONI."

"Why would the Office of Naval Intelligence be involved in a plane crash? You only deal with the naval technologies of foreign powers. I remember reading that somewhere." His tone didn't give a damn if the explanation was believable or not.

"Dr. Crane's people looked at the two watches in an attempt to identify their John Doe. Even a cursory analysis turned up peculiarities. Solid-state technology orders of magnitude beyond commercial microchips. We could tell that even after ten years in salt water." Hedison studied the Middleman with new interest. "Mr. Middler, you said. Friend of the family?"

"I've known Wendy a bit less than a year. I met Mrs. Watson for the first time today. I never met her husband at all." The blatantly truthful statements fell into place like stones. "But I share their concern for his honor and his memory."

"Then clearing this up quickly will be best for everyone," Hedison said smoothly. "Mrs. Watson? Any thoughts?"

"I think I want a lawyer," she said icily. "If you're so determined to see Peter as some sort of international spy. And I want his remains released to his family _now_."

Dr. Crane glanced at the other man. "We, er, can certainly do that, Mrs. Watson. I'll start the process. But."

"I'm afraid we'll have to hold his personal effects -- the watch, and anything else that seems relevant -- while my investigation continues," Hedison said. "I hope the delay will be brief."

"How are you ever going to close the investigation if Dad was innocent?" Wendy said. "Hard to prove a negative. Especially since you can't decide what you're accusing him of."

"Captain Watson's dead, miss; there's no question of putting him on trial."

"Just a question mark at the end of his military record forever, huh?" Having a clear target for her rage felt good. "We aren't going to let that happen."

"My daughter speaks for me as well." Mrs. Watson stood up; the men stood with her out of sheer force of courtesy. "I'm not going to wish you a good day." She swept out of the room, leaving Wendy and the Middleman with nothing to do but follow.

-----

They were outside at the car before Wendy's mother let go of her dignity. She used a few words, in English and Cuban Spanish, to relieve near-lethal levels of rage. "Sorry, dear," she said in a more controlled tone. "I thought I was ready for anything that could happen, knowing that your father was beyond being hurt. I was wrong."

"Mrs. Watson," the Middleman ventured. "I don't know what happened with or to your husband." A glance at Wendy to direct the words at her, too. Wendy met them with a venomous silence. "I'm sure you're right that he was going about some perfectly honorable course of action. We have experience investigating strange and ambiguous situations. Let me look into this, see if I can find out anything useful."

"That's a good idea," Wendy agreed. "We really are good." A sharper edge. "I'm behind you all the way, Boss."


	3. Chapter 3

----

They drove to Wendy's sublet, helped her mother bring the luggage inside, saw her settled with "my other daughter" Lacey. Wendy must have said and done normal things; no one was looking at her strangely. But her mind was a whirlwind of rage and betrayal. She couldn't really express herself until they were alone in the Middlemobile again. "It's the truth, Dubbie," he said quickly. "I'd never heard any suggestion that your father was a Middleman. And I know the detailed histories of all of us this century. I didn't join as an apprentice until five or six months after the date of his disappearance, but..."

Wendy hit him. Not a punch to the jaw but in the stomach, neatly centered under the sternum. Some red-fanged part of herself was proud of her form and follow-through. He didn't block it.

"You sat _right there_," she said. "I didn't know you real well when I told you about my dad. It made sense you were still keeping secrets. But when I said Dad would be proud of me in this job, you said 'maybe he still is.' You didn't just keep quiet. You _said_ he could still be alive."

"I didn't know."

Wendy showed her teeth. "How the hell could you not know?"

"I don't know _that_, either." The Middleman let some of his own frustration show. "That's clearly the first answer we need. Dubbie, how could you think..."

"I trusted you." Wendy's anger was subsiding, leaving nothing but the loss. Two losses. "All the way. I never thought you would lie to me."

"I didn't lie to you."

Wendy sat silent, not looking at him. Then her eyes came into focus, though their expression wasn't pretty. "If you really didn't know about Dad -- I know who did. Who had to."

"Ida couldn't lie about a direct operational matter like that." The Middleman's voice was shaken, though. "Surface personality clashes are one thing. Actual harm to a Middleman or apprentice would break every precept of her core programming."

"She tried to take us both out not so long ago."

"Under the influence of an alien computer virus. That wasn't an act of will on her part."

"Maybe _this_ is a computer virus. Maybe she's just a bitch," Wendy said flatly. "If she did this to me, I have to know. And I have to do something about it."

The Middleman nodded, a little numbly. "I won't stand in your way."

------

"Hey, Skynet." There were things in the armory that could destroy Ida, at least temporarily. The Middleman wouldn't let Wendy have any of them. She understood his worry. "Minute of your time. Don't dick me around, you listen on the Middlewatches all the time unless one of us stops you. My father."

Ida sat back in her desk chair, sneering a little. "If you think..."

"Answer her." The Middleman was suddenly looming between them, eyes locked on the android. "It can be a priority override if you insist. Convince me we can still trust you. Try hard."

"Start with why you had a two-inch dossier on me that said what I was doing at age five but didn't say 'Oh, by the way, your dad was a Middleman.'"

"Captain Peter Allan Watson, US Navy, was never a Middleman," Ida said flatly. "I never met him, he was never at headquarters, he's not on the rolls. You two didn't get the information because it wasn't there." She eyed Wendy. "But I have a line on what _did_ happen. Depends on whether you care more about the truth or kicking my ass." She snorted. "As if."

Wendy leaned back a little. "Make it quick, make it good."

"I cracked into the base computers after you folks had your little heart-to-heart," Ida said. "You're _welcome_. Solid fact number one; that second body they found in the plane is Middleman 1999. No question, x-rays and DNA both check out." Ida glanced at her boss. "There is no solid fact number two. But you could have gotten a hint, since you're the one who obsesses whenever she gets a hangnail. My last contact with 99 was thirty-eight hours before her Daddy dropped out of sight. Not a time match, but damn close to one."

"And he was looking for a replacement apprentice when he died." the Middleman said thoughtfully.

"Two points for the guy in the crappy jacket." Ida shrugged. "So yeah, I probably missed some connection between Papa Bear and three Middlemen ago. Sue me. I'm checking again."

Wendy knew that past Middlemen were referred to by their death or (rarely) retirement dates. "What happened in 1999?"

He took on his this-will-be-on-the-test tone. "First, the Middleman and trainee of that time barely managed to circumvent a cross-dimensional incursion. The trainee was nearly killed. Multiple compound fractures of the left leg, and partial poisoning by a self-replicating organic chemical. Between the two factors he was in and out of a coma for months. Middleman 1999 had no alternative but to look for another apprentice. Until he disappeared himself. Ida's right, that was within days of your father."

"Eight rounds of surgery and I still had pieces left over," Ida remarked. "Every time, we didn't think he'd come out of the anesthetic. Kid had guts, no question about that."

Wendy had the energy to spare for a sympathy wince. "Poor guy."

"He was my Middleman," hers said. "When his mentor disappeared, he had to move up regardless of his condition. He investigated the disappearance, of course. When he hired me a few months later, we both did. Ida's last contact with Middleman 1999 was an ordinary phone call, saying that the Middlewatches weren't working but he'd be back at headquarters shortly. He wasn't specific, but we had to conclude he hadn't been dealing with any crisis when he disappeared."

"World didn't blow up without him," Ida said. "Sometimes that's all the news we get."

"Does that make it a regular plane crash, then?"

Ida glared at Wendy. "Yeah. Because _that's_ how Middlemen get killed. The watches went out, genius. Throw a nuke at them, they keep working. One of you's suddenly on Mars, they keep working. You get the picture. We did a detailed search in a hundred-mile radius of that pay phone, never got another sign of him. Just a fax -- dirt-stupid technology, again -- that he sent at the same time."

An image came up on the big viewscreen, enlarged several times. Dot-matrix lettering and stray dots of toner-static showed that it was a fax. The original had clearly been a handmade sketch, done with some care and a neatly inked ruler along one side to show scale. "He's trained, but not as an artist," Wendy said absently. "Draftsman maybe, or engineering drawing."

"Save the Sherlock Holmes," Ida snarled. "People a whole lot smarter than you have poked into this and come up empty. It was the last thing he asked me to do, research that for him."

The sketch showed a squat, ugly statue, ten inches high by six wide if the scale was accurate. It was posed like a seated Buddha, but without the charm. The wide, lidless eyes were something besides human. The skull came to a backward-sloping point. The fingers had too many joints -- or none -- and a hint of claws. "We couldn't link it to any artistic or cultural tradition," the Middleman said. "Including a few from off Earth. This is where the trail ended."

"Only it didn't," Wendy said thoughtfully. "The Y2K Middleman finds himself carrying this thing around, without a wing man and without his gadgets. My dad has an oldie-but-a-goodie airplane and some flexibility in his flight schedule. He gets given a Middlewatch -- but the watches weren't working by then. So why?"

"My predecessor may have learned what was interfering and expected it to be temporary," her Middleman said. "Or ... symbolic value. Your father was covered in your own background check, Dubbie. He would have made a good Middleman. If the offer was made, if he accepted it."

"Instead they get a one-way dive. And I get a temp job." Wendy stared down at her fingers, her connection to the conversation waning. "Funny thing."

The Middleman put his hand on Wendy's shoulder. "Dubbie." When she didn't respond, his concerned look got worse. He looked up. "Ida. I assume that artifact was not found in the remains of Captain Watson's plane."

"Not my first day on the job, here. No artifact, part of an artifact, picture of an artifact, nada."

He nodded. "One part of the job won't wait. I need layout and schematics on that Naval base, especially their forensics department. The watches..."

"Have to be retrieved, alien technology, Prime Directive. I'll fake up something you can leave in their place. Cat burglar time. I _said_ I know my job."

"Excuse me. I've got to sit down." Wendy disappeared toward the archive room.

"Dubbie?" She didn't stop.

"Oh, wonderful," Ida snarled. "Melting down like soft-serve ice cream. Go do the big-manly-shoulder thing or we'll never have _time_ to do the mission."

The Middleman was already following Wendy. "'Thanks, Ida,'" the android said to the empty control room. "'You do a great job putting up with meatbags who flake out every ten seconds. I don't know what I'd do without you.'" Ida turned back to HEYDAR.

------

The Middleman didn't see her at first. The table and chairs in the center of the library were empty. But when he held his breath he caught a faint snuffling between the stacks. Wendy had curled up at the back of the aisle between two rows of shelves, trying to be silent. The Middleman sat down on the floor at arm's length from her.

"Sorry." Her voice was choked with tears, barely audible. "I'm a dumbass. I bet Navy SEALS never do this stuff."

"This is probably the worst day of your life. At least, I'd hate to look forward to a worse one." He handed her a neatly folded cotton handkerchief.

The kindness cracked her open. Wendy curled up in something like the fetal position and howled. When the Middleman touched her, she clung to him desperately. He didn't try to talk.

After the first flood, Wendy was trying to fight it back down. "It's not." She took a breath. "It's not that he's, dead. It's that. We were." She put more willpower behind the words. "We were going to lose him anyway."

The Middleman looked blank. Wendy shoved at him. "He wasn't going to be Peter Watson any more," she snarled. "Sooner or later. If he wouldn't be Peter Watson, he wouldn't be my Dad." Hearing herself say the words hurt. She closed her eyes and froze, trying to get some distance so she wouldn't cry again."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "You're wrong, Dubbie." A whisper. "Not being able to maintain a life outside the job ... that's not a universal. That's my particular weakness. It's hard to do, yes. That's one reason men with close ties, like your father, aren't often asked. But when the commitment already exists ... if he'd been willing to leave his family to be a Middleman, he wouldn't have been fit to be one. Don't judge him by what I did."

"You haven't done anything wrong."

"Not directly, but I haven't spelled out what's necessary to the job and what's my personal limits. More Middlemen than not have kept some degree of outside lives. Probably your father would have retired from the Navy and said he had a civilian consulting job with unpredictable hours and confidentiality agreements. Very much what _you_ tell people." He sat back in a more comfortable position without taking his arms from around Wendy. "You're not going to end your friendship with Lacey when you have my job. Imagine how strongly a good man like your father would feel about you and your mother."

She wasn't happy, but the acute distress subsided a little. "You're my mother's worst nightmare, if she knew it," Wendy said. "Not you personally, but The Middlemen. This job cost us, cost _her_, my dad. One bad day, one bad break, and she could lose me too."

"Yes. I know." That was inherent in their work. The Middleman had coped for years by refusing to have a relationship with anyone. Until Wendy slid past his defenses, and _not_ having one became intolerable.

They'd been around the full circle. She could leave the job, and him. She could try to leave one and somehow stay connected with the other. In theory the Middleman had the same choices, but he'd never use them. A perfect life, or a painless one, wasn't an option. They'd tried to make the rewards worth the risks; they'd succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. But her mother wasn't in line for any of the rewards.

"I'm cold." Wendy snuggled closer.

She was in a state close to shock, which was appalling in a woman who'd faced monsters and demons without batting an eyelash. "You should go lie down."

Wendy snickered in spite of herself; he didn't join in. "Nothing that interesting. I'm afraid. I'll be busy tonight. We can't let the Navy have access to Middle-technology; there's a real chance they might understand part of it. I'm going to exchange those watches for something innocuous. If I do my job right they'll never know anyone was there."

Wendy sat up. "I'll go too."

"Not this time. If we get caught, you'll have signed your real name to a federal felony. Also, you'll have made them even more suspicious about your father." The Middleman knew which argument had a chance of working. "Trust me, there'll be another death-defying adventure along soon enough."

"Okay," Wendy agreed. "This time. Anyway, if I leave my mom alone with Lacey too long I won't have any secrets left."

"I'm also putting Ida to work on a cover story," the Middleman said. "Give us a few days, we'll have a plausible reason for them to release Middleman 1999's remains to his _soi-disant_ next of kin. I'll make sure that story also explains the suspicious parts of the crash site. We can't let the military know how your father died -- assuming we can discover that ourselves. But we can prevent an unfair stain on his record."

"Thanks. I was wondering about that."

"Punching people isn't my only crisis-solution mode," he said dryly.

His humor was low-key to the point of subterranean, but Wendy could spot it now. "Jerk." She looked more thoughtful. "I hadn't thought about that, the old Middleman. Are there hundreds of us buried in the basement like _Arsenic and Old Lace_?"

"Not as many as you'd think. Most are with their own families. Ida will have to check the instructions 1999 left."

She sat back a bit further, looked seriously at him. "What about you?"

"Originally I asked to have my ashes scattered on my parents' graves back in Michigan. Closing a circle of sorts."

"_Slightly_ more sentimental than being put out with the recycling, I'll give it that."

"I revoked those instructions a few months ago. We'll talk something out when things are calmer."

Wendy shook her head. "That's a big 'we.' I keep thinking I've got a grip on this whole thing, with you. Not just the job but the actual hard-core _partnership_. Then something new whips around and hits me."

His smile was a little shaky. "Me too. Don't assume I know what I'm doing. I've never been married either."

They'd consciously decided not to have a ceremony or legal status or even full-time living together. Funny how little difference that made. "I'll go deal with my Mom," Wendy said. "You go deal with my Dad."

------


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

A familiar, spicy smell hit Wendy as she walked into her sublet. She relaxed deeply. A host of memories hit her with the corn and tomatoes and chili powder.

Then Wendy stared. Her mom and Lacey were sitting across the table from each other; Mom smiled welcome and went to the stove to make her a plate. "Lacey, you're eating meat. There's a pound of hamburger in that stuff."

Lacey grinned. "Mom made two batches. One with dead cows for you and her, one with red beans and textured soy for me. _Or_ you can try mine and like it better and we can keep on making it."

Wendy sat. Her mother had given her a generous helping of casserole in the middle of the plate, and a dab of almost-real at the side. She tasted the variant and tried not to make a face. "Not so much. Sorry."

Mom, still standing, leaned in and kissed Wendy on top of the head. "Mike couldn't come with you?"

It took Wendy a frozen half-second to track who her mother meant. "Yeah, sorry. He had to work. I'm sure you'll get to spend time together."

Lacey shaped _Mike_ without a sound and grinned harder. She'd put more than a few pieces together since Wendy joined the world of comic-book heroism, but she was good about not demanding explanations. She'd back them up. "I mostly call him Wendy's Boss, like Noser does," she said. "Or Sexy Boss. I was giving him the long fluffy eyelashes myself at one point, but I guess I never stood a chance."

Wendy took a bite of her (real) favorite comfort entree and a sip of diet soda. "Greater love hath no roommate than to do a fade _after_ she's seen him in a tuxedo."

"Rowr. Mercy," Lacey agreed in her best Roy Orbison tone.

Mom smiled faintly. She'd worked hard, and succeeded better than most traditional parents, on the switch from "baby I used to diaper" to "adult woman who usually has a sex life." She'd tried the long-distance nosy exactly once, when Wendy was in art college. Wendy, with malice aforethought and on Lacey's suggestion, had answered at a detail level that left her mother speechless. "Should I ask your boyfriend his intentions?" Mom asked lightly.

Wendy had never been able to manage the word 'boyfriend' for her Middleman. It was the 'boy' part. "You might get an answer," she warned. "You know how in fairy tales, the knight gets challenged to kill a dragon or something to prove his love for the princess? Do _not_. Your condo doesn't have enough front yard for one, and the garbage man probably wouldn't pick it up."

Mom nodded thoughtfully. She had high standards for who and what was good enough for her only child; metaphorical dragon-slaying got a passing grade. Unlike Wendy, she didn't know there were literal ones. "What's all this about valor, though?"

Wendy had been expecting this. She still wasn't as braced as she could have been. She pictured her Dad delivering the same explanation. "We're not cops, but sometimes we're around dangerous people." Human and otherwise. The fraction of Middlemen who retired alive and reasonably healthy was below five percent; there'd never been two in a row. "We know what we're doing, and we're careful." A thought struck her. She asked with real curiosity, "What if I'd gone into the service, like Dad? That's not so safe."

"We talked about that sometimes," Mom admitted. "It worried him even more than it did me. But serving his country was his life. He would have understood you making the same choice. And so would I."

For a second, Wendy thought her mother was going to ask a blunt question. Thought she was going to give a blunt answer right back, even in front of Lacey. Even though it would betray the principles of her job. Then there'd be an argument. She knew how that one was going to go too.

Mom knew her Wendy very well. The older woman broke eye contact first, took another bite of dinner.

Wendy looked down too. Pitched her voice to sound like a change of subject. "Something I never thought to ask about, before ... what do you think dad would have done when he left the service?"

"We still had a few years to decide, unless your father had called in favors." Mom shrugged. "He used to joke about teaching calculus to high-school students somewhere. Mostly that it would qualify for combat pay. Some sort of engineering work, though he'd have had to go back to school. And once or twice, people tried to headhunt him for one civilian job or another. Usually men he'd served with at some point."

_Once or twice? As in once, or as in twice?_ "Was any of that close to when he disappeared?"

Her mother looked up, eyes keen. "What are you asking me?"

"I don't know exactly what I am asking." _I have a pretty good idea, though._ "I'm looking for all the facts I can get. Do you remember who talked to Dad about civilian jobs, and when, and anything he said about them? Especially when."

Wendy's mother followed her all too well. "None of it was close to the time Peter dis... was taken from us. Or I'd have mentioned it to the original investigators." She thought it over. "Patterson had gotten a job with a regional airline and thought your father would be interested too. That was while we were still stationed in Georgia, so at least two years before the accident. James, you remember James, wanted to start a construction company. Your father turned him down outright. He'd have needed too much retraining. And ... Chris, I think it was. I didn't know him well. He and your father had met on an overseas deployment. He visited the base about two months before your father died. Peter didn't say much about that one, only that it would involve travel. I thought he was considering it seriously, but they didn't speak again that I knew of." She searched Wendy's face. "What does this mean?"

"More puzzle pieces, mostly." Wendy hadn't come this close to an outright lie to her mother since she was twelve. "I'll have to let you know."

------

Going with Dubbie and her mother to the military base had been a mistake, looking back. The Middleman hadn't realized that he'd need to visit it for illegal and unauthorized purposes. He'd been seen with the Watsons now. No matter what false documents or cover story he used, if he were caught it would splash back on them. The only solution was not getting caught.

One of the base dining halls was in the same building as the forensics and pathology lab. The civilian fresh-produce distributor delivered at night. He took a lot more care than the Middle-organization usually did with cover stories. Blue-collar civvies and a baseball cap, a forged purchase order on the right letterhead. The kitchen night shift thought he was with the delivery crew. The delivery crew didn't know he was in the back of their van at all.

Ida had a front-row seat via a lightly tinted pair of sunglasses. She whispered advice here and there as the Middleman moved through the building. She had remote links that created 'video glitches' when they were in range of a security camera. The Middleman had a gadget in his back pocket that opened any lock, electronic or mechanical. He hadn't worked semi-solo in a long time. It was the fastest way to cover the ground sometimes.

_The Middleman stirred uneasily in his sleep. Nothing about being away from Wendy was supposed to be good, even for a minute. His hand found a king-sized pillow and clutched it against his chest._

No one in the forensics lab. According to the logs, the men from the DC-3 were the only sets of remains here at the moment. He was sure the pathologists didn't mind a light schedule. He'd known what to expect. Two big, wide tables with a skeleton apiece laid out in anatomical order. Clinical, but not completely heartless. Someone had taken care, cleaning and studying what they'd found in a way that suggested respect.

Middleman 1999 had had a distinctive crooked front tooth, in his old photographs. The current model spotted it on the left-hand set of remains and saluted without a trace of irony. _We'll get you home as fast as we can. We still take care of our own._

Right-hand table. There was nothing to learn about Captain Watson here, except that he'd had strong bones and been unexpectedly tall for his daughter's father. A slight nod. _Sir_. Disturbing either was no part of the Middleman's plans. His business was with the locked drawers at the back of the room.

The watches were in the third one he opened. The Middleman put them carefully in an inside pocket, replaced them with evidence-bagged copies as superficially alike as he could make them. That was the mission settled, but another object caught his eye. He reached in and brought out the other Middleman's gun.

Not the pulsed-laser pistol with the rectangular barrel that had been standard for Middlemen for decades. A gunpowder-powered handgun, not even a semiautomatic but a revolver. The chromed surface had given it some resistance to the seawater. He estimated it as a .357; a pretty high-powered choice. _Why couldn't you use your own gun?_ Taking it along was tempting but too dangerous. He didn't have a decoy to leave in its place.

And then he'd left, slipped undetected back into the produce van and ridden out without a hitch. Brought the two old Middlewatches back to Ida for in-depth scans, showered, gone to bed. Not this time. The Middleman turned back toward the door, slow as moving underwater, and he couldn't avoid seeing the right-hand table. Not a plain work surface now but a stainless steel autopsy table, really a giant pan with a drain plug. The body was ashen gray but whole, as nearly as he could tell with the sheet drawn up just below the collarbones.

Wendy's eyes were closed, not by her muscles but by tiny, delicate stitches. The ones he could see on the Y-incision were larger but just as careful. It showed respect.

He was awake, in the dark, thrashing against some loose confinement, and she wasn't _anywhere_. He felt around frantically, disentangling -- those were bed sheets. He was alone. As if she'd never been there. He swept his arm on another search arc, banged his knuckles hard against the headboard.

The Middleman sat up wearily. Turned the bedside lamp on low. It was past five a.m. Well over four hours' sleep, he ought to be more rested. His head seemed to be packed with hot sand. He was awake enough to sort dream from reality. But he had to find the pillow that smelled most like Wendy, imprinted with her lemongrass shampoo, before his heartbeat slowed down.

He didn't know if he'd made any sounds. From the standpoint of Ida realizing he'd been a hysterical fool, it made very little difference.

The sun was up. He wasn't going to get any more sleep at this point. The Middleman went looking for his running shoes.

----

The Middleman was in the 'public' entry foyer of headquarters when Wendy reached work that morning. His eyes lit when he saw her. That wasn't unusual, after a night apart. But when she followed him back toward the control room, he stopped dead just inside the inner door. Wendy had never noticed that a bend in the hall was out of view of both the foyer and the main control room. He drew her into the phone-booth-sized scrap of privacy and kissed her hard.

_Couldn't wait, huh?_ And he was slightly sweaty; an extra workout and a hasty shower. Wendy worried a little. But he relaxed too quickly, touching her, for any serious trouble. She leaned into him, let herself enjoy the morning treat. "What happened?" she asked when he let go.

"Just a bad dream." His eyes drank her in. "Back in the real world, we have the Middlewatches back. Ida has been working with them all night, trying to recover some kind of data from the molycircuitry. No luck. They might as well be solid lumps of metal." The Middleman kissed her again, lightly on the cheek. "You aren't exactly sparkling either."

"My mom is using her powers for nosy instead of evil," Wendy said. "It's dealable. About two months before the crash, a military buddy of my dad's called Chris talked to him about a civilian job involving lots of travel."

He nodded. "Middleman 1999. That matches the time Middleman 2002 was injured and he started looking for a substitute."

"So your boss got well and had a few good years before... you got promoted." Wendy had never asked those kinds of questions before.

"I wouldn't use the word well," her Middleman said. "He could walk about a hundred yards at a time. I don't think he had a day without pain while I knew him. I was in very good shape, after the SEALs, but I didn't have the slightest idea what I was doing. We covered the job between us." His expression turned a little wistful. "He was a good mentor. And a good friend."

Wendy snuggled in to comfort him. "Is that part of why?" she asked. "The gender-neutral hiring policies all of a sudden. I can be fast, and I can be smart, but I'm never going to bench-press half as much as you can."

He held still a second, as if he'd never made the connection before. And shrugged. "No. Sorry," the Middleman said, completely deadpan. "I hired you because I had a vivid image of you in tight pants and couldn't resist the temptation."

Wendy grabbed his lapels in mock aggression. "Get me coffee before I hurt you."

He moved her hands. "You can drink it while HEYDAR does more search runs. I think I know why the Middlewatches stopped working and were permanently destroyed. Why the Middleman on the job wouldn't come anywhere near Ida or headquarters during this particular mission. Why a fifty-year-old aircraft was his best choice for transporting the artifact in question. Why he didn't or couldn't take a photograph of it instead of making a sketch. And a fact you don't have, why he was carrying an ordinary revolver when he died when our standard laser pulser is a better weapon."

"Wait a minute. You told me this once." Wendy looked thoughtful. "Magic screws up some kinds of technology. That's one of the things you hate about it. The more complicated the tech, the more screwed it is. Even the alien stuff we've got. The ugly statue thing was really, really heavy-duty magic."

Her Middleman nodded. "Order that coffee to go, Dubbie. We have an appointment with Roxy Wasserman in half an hour."

----


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

Ida's voice echoed from the main control room. "Don't try to sneak off for a quickie, we've got work to do."

When they were all in the same room, Ida got down to business. "We've got two reliable locations in all this. The coastal town that Middleman 1999 was in the last time he called home, and the crash site itself. I've been doing scans within an overlapping radius of both those sites, looking for technology glitches that could be magic-related. Over the entire last ten years, which _yes_, would have been incredibly difficult if I weren't the most advanced processing unit on this entire dirtball. HEYDAR and I are still crunching numbers, but there's not any big obvious pattern. Except one." She looked expectant.

"Yeah. You rock, you rule, we couldn't survive a single day without you," Wendy said in an absolutely flat voice. Rolled her eyes. "Please, oh superior computerized one, favor us with your wisdom." The Middleman stayed out of it.

Ida smirked. "The crash site. When the Navy found it, they did a four-day salvage operation. A pretty good job, actually. It was clear on the first day that the plane was too structurally damaged to bring up in one piece. Getting it back in sections was more time and effort than it was worth. So they did a detailed survey of the site, photographed every inch. Spent most of a day recovering the remains. Sifted through the whole crash site, got every little bit of bone they could find."

"We don't leave people behind," the Middleman said quietly. It wasn't clear if he meant the Middlemen, the Navy, or both.

"That was day one and two," Ida said. "They come back at dawn, day three, and suddenly everything's gone to crap. Camera trouble, diving gear trouble. One of your SEAL types had to choose between decompressing too fast or suffocating when his regulator shut down. Spent a week in a hospital. Nobody you know personally," Ida added. "They kept trying, but no hope. Midday the fourth day they gave up and went home with what they had."

"Then the magic artifact was in the wreckage," the Middleman said. "For a while at least. You're sure the salvage and the photographs didn't find anything like it?"

"Nothing even close," Ida said. "I also retasked a satellite, did some deep-radar scans last night. I can't say whether it was there during the salvage, maybe maybe not. It's definitely not there _now_."

"What was stopping this statue thing from screwing them up the first two diving days?" Wendy asked. "Do you guys -- us guys -- have some whack-a-magic gadget in the armory someplace?"

"Nope," Ida said flatly. "That's probably another question you should ask the slut-puppy."

The Middleman looked reproachful; Wendy grinned. "That's the first time I've heard you get truly b ... catty about someone who wasn't me," she said. "You are so freakin' _jealous_."

"Look at the time," the Middleman said hastily. Without a glance at his watch. "Later, Ida. Come along, Dubbie, it would be rude to be late for that consultation."

-----

Roxy Wasserman, semi-retired succubus, was dressed in a sleek linen sheath and jacket that probably cost as much as Wendy's car. She was standing at a fabric-covered table when they entered her office, outlining a pattern in long sweeping strokes. "You never call, you never write," she said dryly. Wendy couldn't guess how much of the disdainful tone was real.

The Middleman looked a little flushed. "Yes. Well, we haven't had a magic-related incursion in some time. This one is old news. It's connected to the mission that killed Middleman 1999. I need you to identify a magic artifact." He held up the sketch. "Apparently it was so antagonistic to high technology that even cameras wouldn't work on it."

Roxy held out an elegant hand. The Middleman stepped up to the table opposite her and passed the paper across. "That narrows down the type of magic a bit. Some of the older ones work that way when they're powerful enough. Speaking of which, I heard from Dresden. He says that if a sacred katana doesn't suit you, there's a longsword available too."

The Middleman looked down. "Michael's dead?"

"Injured and retired, I gather. You should be so lucky. Call the poor boy. He's right, it would be a good match."

Head shake. "I have a job."

Wendy came forward to the table. Roxy's look got more sardonic. "Congratulations, dear. On the wardrobe change, I mean. A bit unimaginative, but at least it's no longer actively offensive."

She'd had a personal relationship, of a sort, with the Middleman before Wendy came along. The human girl couldn't blame Roxy for having her claws out, but she didn't have to turn the other cheek. "It's not haute couture, but it's comfortable," Wendy said with a slight edge and a sweet smile. The Middleman pretended not to hear either of them.

Roxy looked down at the sketch. "But I see you've got bigger problems. If this is even remotely accurate, you're dealing with an artifact of the Deep Ones."

"Oh, phooey." The Middleman's tone made the word stand in for paragraphs of salty language.

Wendy readied a biting "tell me and we'll all know" remark, but she didn't need it. "You must have realized that Earth has several intelligent species besides you," Roxy said. "The Deep Ones are very, very old. Very, very powerful. Fortunately they live in the deepest parts of the oceans, or you wouldn't stand a chance. When they get curious about dry land, it doesn't go well. If they did kill a Middleman in 1999, he wouldn't be their first. The powerful magical aura fits. Even if this artifact were ... asleep, it would destroy any of your little toys more complex than about 1950's technology."

"So a mint-condition DC-3 would be an ideal way to transport this over a long distance," the Middleman said. "We suspected as much."

"If the thing's asleep, that might do it. If it were awakened, even technology that old could stop working." Roxy tapped the sketch. "This is an image of one of the Deep Ones, maybe Dagon. If it's on dry land, and becomes aware of you people ..." She shrugged. "I might have to move back to my old neighborhood."

"_So_ reassuring having you for backup," Wendy snarled. "I feel all warm and fuzzy."

The succubus ignored her and looked straight at the Middleman. "I'd help if I could, truly. But nothing I have can stand against this if it comes alive. Not for an instant. If you can, get it back to the ocean before it notices. If you can't -- it's been interesting knowing you, MM." Her perfect nails tapped on the top of the table. "I might be able to sneak you into the Underworld alive, or even the Summerlands." She glanced across at Wendy. "Bring the cheerleader if you insist."

"You know that isn't going to happen." His eyes were serious, hiding nothing. "We have our work to do, good odds or bad ones."

Roxy's eyes had a tinge of red. "You're a fool. It's not just death, it's the _kind_ of death they'll deal out if you irritate them. And if you think Polly Pocket here will be any use..." She stretched farther across the table, closed her hand around the Middleman's. And screamed.

Wendy went for her gun. But the succubus was retreating, not attacking. Roxy had changed into her other form, red-eyed and shark-toothed. The demonic eyes were round with terror. "How ..." She cradled her right hand. Roxy's palm and fingers were sunburn red. Blisters formed and popped as Wendy watched. "You could have damned well _warned_ me," Roxy hissed, inhuman echoes in her voice.

The Middleman looked from her to his own hand, which looked completely normal. "Warned about what?"

"You've been doing soul-magic yourself. It's her, isn't it?" Roxy pointed a finger at Wendy, flinched in new pain. She backed up another step. "Did you come here to show off? I couldn't give you any shields half as good."

He started to come around the table, thought better of it when the demon backed up. "Roxy. I'm sorry you got injured." The Middleman glanced at his hands again. "But I'm about as magical as a two-by-four, you know that. I swear, I have no idea what just happened."

Roxy sank into a chrome and leather chair. "Stay where you are, both of you." She looked at her burned hand and said something in the hissing, echoing demonic language. The injuries began to heal. "Assuming you are telling the truth, I'll break it into baby steps. You may not know that what humans term True Love," Roxy made a sour face, "has magical significance."

Wendy remembered hurling Carpathian-wood stakes at creatures using Lacey's and the Middleman's bodies. "Actually yeah. It has come up." She pressed closer to him on their side of the table.

"For one thing, it's the natural antidote to my kind's sex magics," Roxy said. "I could throw a killing-force compulsion at you right now, MM -- yes, _if_ I hadn't reformed -- and I doubt you'd notice. The same with Miss Perky and an incubus. Related magic attacks -- enforced despair, the draining of life energy -- also lose effect. You seem to have channeled it through a ritual whether you realized it or not. Did you write your own wedding vows?"

"We haven't gotten married," Wendy said weakly.

"You don't sound sure." The demon looked distant and elegant. "Were there alcoholic blackouts in Vegas at any point?"

"Arroxane," the Middleman said flatly.

Roxy caught the reproach in his formal tone and subsided a little. "Wedding vows can do it. At the dawn of history, they were intended to. Blood brotherhood oaths, in cultures that have them. Don't expect me to explain it, I wasn't there.

"But count your blessings. It's a better defense against Deep Ones than anything I could do. If you don't push your luck, don't confront them too directly, you might both get out alive."

"That's the plan? Find this thing wherever it is, take it away from whoever has it, and act cute in front of it until it gets cooties overload and explodes?

The succubus was getting her composure back. "Oh my, I think that was sarcasm. No. Not unless you intend to spend the rest of your lives in the same room with it." Roxy tapped the sketch. Are these dimensions accurate?"

"We have to assume so," The Middleman said.

"Give me a day or so, I can build you some containment. Limited, but it should let you handle this thing without your darling little Dick Tracy watches destroying themselves." Her eyes narrowed. "Ten years, you said. What's been keeping it restrained this long?"

He shrugged a little. "No idea. It was -- we're almost certain it was -- in a wrecked DC-3 off the coast under fifty feet of water. The Middleman 1999 and," he hesitated. "And an assistant crashed while trying to transport it."

"The salt water didn't stop it, then. The Deep Ones or one of their halflings could have gotten it back as easily as picking up the morning newspaper." Roxy looked down. "Your Middleman 1999 didn't come to me with this. He never did believe I was reformed enough to trust. Maybe he went to some other magic consultant."

"There's no mention of one in the archives. We need more information on the Deep Ones," the Middleman said. "All you can give us."

"You always did live dangerously. There was a human in the 1920's who did extensive research. He didn't mean to -- he was trying to find out why both his parents had died insane. He found out too much. Died young himself, of an unexplained cancer -- that's the official story," Roxy said. "The Deep Ones have made contact more than once on that part of the East Coast. And they're interfertile with your kind, in spite of their looks. Never lose sight of that. When they get interested in dry land, breeding hybrids is always their first move."

"And the tabloid reads 'I married a frog,'" Wendy said. "Sounds nasty."

Roxy's blood-red eyes were serious. "Suicide is usually the best move at that point. You don't want details."

The Middleman's hand rested on Wendy's shoulder. "Then it's a good thing we're protected."

"You'd better stay that way," Roxy said. "Candlelit dinners, whatever it takes. Soul-bonding shields are only as good as the bond." She stopped, visibly pulled her emotions together. "I'll send the background information to your office by messenger. A few hours, probably. And the magic-proof container when I have it finished. MM, darling, just be yourself. You ..." her eyes shifted to Wendy. "Be worth it."

Wendy stepped around the fabric table. Reached out in what she realized was a copy of the Wu Han Thumb of Death, touched the older woman lightly between the eyebrows. "Count on it."

------


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

Summary:

Haply I think on thee ...  
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings  
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

(WS #39)

----

Wendy's take-no-prisoners exit line seemed to have used up all her emotional energy. She was shaking a little by the time they reached the car outside Famouse. The Middleman opened her car door for her like a prom date. Hurried around it to slide behind the wheel, back in arm's reach. She touched him tentatively. She didn't relax as he'd hoped when he slid an arm around her shoulders. "Dubbie?" At least her skin didn't feel chilled this time. He joked, "Candlelight dinner?"

"I've never been sure what those are for, honestly," Wendy said. "Unless you both like the food, or unless the guy expects to get lucky based on how much money he spends." A corner of her mouth quirked up. "You're definitely in, you know. Even if you weren't. If word ever gets around about your neck rubs, girls will buy _you_ steaks."

"Don't always assume the worst. A lot of men --" a half-smile, "Obviously I mean sad, lonely men -- have trouble telling the women in their lives how they feel. The classic date meal is at least a general indicator in the right direction."

Wendy's you-are-_insane_ looks had lost frequency and intensity over time. The one she used now could have come from her first day on the job. "Men. Are giving subtle and indirect hints. Hoping women spot them. What color is the sky in your world?"

The Middleman held her closer and went back to the original subject. "I was going to ask about Roxy. You realize, coming from her that was quite a vote of confidence. We've got better chances than I was hoping for. Because of you."

Far from being reassured, or flattered, Wendy looked more upset. She worked at getting her composure back. "Is that how it sounded? Maybe you're right. I know right now I'm kind of..."

_Wounded_, he thought.

"... freaking out over little things. But that's not how it sounded to me. More," she swallowed. "If we get ourselves killed, if the world is overrun by frog-lizard uglies, it'll be because _I_ failed. Because I didn't love you the right way, or enough. Notice she only told _you_ to be yourself. She's right, too. You have ..." Dubbie searched for words, found some in the Lacey section. "You have a true heart. You're naturally going to love somebody, and it's going to be true love -- it wouldn't dare not be. I'm a lot more ordinary than that. You still scare hell out of me sometimes, you know. The _fact_ of you." She held on tighter. "I'm getting some moves, but that doesn't make me a superhero. Not deep down. It makes me a smartass with some moves. Sometimes I freeze solid. Because it comes to me out of nowhere, someday you'll figure that out."

She'd seen him at his worst, she'd seen herself at her best, and she could still think like that. "Dubbie. I can't show you the next ten or twenty years right here and now. I can't even show you what I see, looking at you." He'd tried. Words weren't up to the job, or his weren't. "Let's go home. We've done all we can for the moment, as far as the mission. Let me take care of you."

He smiled a little. "Later on, if we aren't out getting killed on short notice, we can have that dinner. Table for four, with Lacey and your mother. She's going to get a clear shot at me sooner or later. It might as well be somewhere that serves a meal. I've been trained in interrogation resistance, I'm not afraid." His tone said the opposite.

Wendy snickered. A few tears got loose. "God, I need you."

"You have me." She could hear the rest, _always_ and _forever_, better than if he'd fumbled through the words. One of the thousand things that made him need her just as badly.

--------

He wasn't vain about his body. And Wendy wasn't shallow enough to focus just on that. All the same, it was part of him. The physical strength he'd always been able to rely on made him fearless. The two traits together made him gentle. The Middleman had nothing to prove, not even to her. Wendy was unspeakably grateful for that gift. Too many of the guys-not-men in her dating lifetime had promised 'sensitive' and delivered 'whiny' instead. Or 'deep' as in 'surly and self-obsessed.' Wendy never wanted to go back.

Taking care of her was apparently a literal mission brief. He turned the big bed into a nest just short of a pillow fort, curled up beside her. All that muscle mass shed heat like a furnace. They'd been together half the fall and all winter, now, and Wendy had never needed a spare blanket when she slept here.

He had a tray of finger food. Even though she felt ridiculous, Wendy gave in and let him feed her. The 'galley' downstairs didn't have chocolate-covered strawberries, but he'd found other fruit and cheese and crackers. "You could have told me you had style, on top of the nice butt," Wendy said lazily. "I'd have jumped on you the first week."

The Middleman's eyes twinkled. "I'm actually very shy."

Wendy set the tray on a bedside table. "Get over it." She started to grab. He moved faster.

----

For one moment, arching up against him with all her strength, Wendy could see it. A faint glow like heat-shimmer on a summer highway, clinging to both their skins. She moved a hand to the front of his shoulder. The light flared brighter where they touched.

He saw it too, started to say something. Then touch overwhelmed sight and they both lost track.

------

Wendy knew good operational planning when she saw it. Their two-human raid on an alien spacecraft a few months earlier, for example. But she'd never seen her Middleman turn that skill to a social occasion. She didn't have to do anything, not even arrange for Mom and Lacey to meet them at the restaurant. Which turned out, on arrival, to be something Northern Italian that she couldn't pronounce. He was incognito again in just the pants, shirt, and loosened tie of his uniform. Wendy had her uniform pants and boots disguised with a green long-sleeved blouse. The others were waiting in the foyer. "This seems very nice," Mom approved. "Is it one of your date restaurants?"

_No, we stick to stakeouts in the car or investigating crime-scenes._ Wendy didn't have a ready answer. The Middleman stepped in smoothly. "I've never been here, actually," he said. "But it has good reviews. And Lacey, they're known for using free-range organic dairy products; anything on the menu that doesn't specifically mention meat should be fine for you."

Lacey's grin was genuine. "You are so sweet."

The whole beginning of the 'date' had that kind of old-fashioned charm. He helped all three women with their chairs, starting with Mom. Wendy didn't know how he'd arranged it, but her menu didn't have prices. She had a sneaking suspicion only one of them did. If she'd been asked for advice, she hoped she would have done this well -- _don't try to change your style, show it at its best_. But apparently he hadn't needed any.

Lacey had a similar train of thought. "I had no idea you were a romantic, _Mike_," she remarked. "You're so low-key."

"Wendy changes people." He spoke quietly, but with a hint of the emotional openness Wendy had only seen when they were alone_. Men. Expressing emotions by subtle and indirect hints. _ And, _the thing about shy wasn't more than half kidding_. He wasn't just putting The Middleman aside, temporarily, for her. He was extending that to the closest people in her life, in tribute to the fact that they were inalterably in his life too. _He's __having__ a life. I never imagined 'Mike Middler' could be a real person._

Mom didn't know details, but she couldn't miss the deep affection in his voice. "Tell me about yourself," she said warmly.

Even with that friendly an audience, Wendy knew he'd rather have faced alien battle-bots. "Well. I was born in Michigan."

Lacey didn't say a thing; playing fly on the wall was clearly exactly what she wanted. Wendy hardly said more, for fear of throwing off whatever cover story he had in mind. Except there wasn't one. He was sparse with names and dates, but every detail he did give matched what Wendy knew about his past.

They'd both learned the hard way how dangerous that could be. A few months earlier, a stray remark she'd made to Tyler Ford gave FATBOY the tools to nearly destroy them. The Middleman was shedding one more layer of armor anyway, purely to make Wendy's life easier. She worried, but she couldn't help loving him more.

"... jumping out the third-floor window and rolling out at the bottom. Then running back upstairs," he was saying. "It wasn't dangerous. We were all about twenty, so we were limber, and we'd just come off advanced parachute training. Beautiful soft lawn to land on. But the hotel manager made us stop, because the window faced the street." A well-timed pause. "They were worried about car accidents."

Mom inhaled her ice water. Wendy escaped only because she wasn't drinking anything at the time. The Middleman passed Mom an extra napkin with an innocent air.

"You guys are _so_ lucky I got over my crush," Lacey put in when her giggles died down. "Because some people just keep getting cuter."

The waiter arrived about then. Sorting out tortellini Alfredo from pasta primavera interrupted the flow of talk. Wendy's mom let everyone get in a few bites before she tightened the conversational screws. "So, are you good to my girl?" she asked mildly.

An equally direct answer. "Yes, ma'am. I try to be."

_I'm right here._ But there were some battles Wendy couldn't fight for him.

"Don't think that 'valiant' remark got past me, the other morning. She talks around the subject on the telephone, but one word she's never used about her new job is _safe_."

"Mom, some people run into burning buildings for a living," Wendy started.

Her mother's eyes didn't move from the Middleman's. "Wendy's father used to call us, sometimes, when he was out on a deployment. He'd ask a long list of questions about absolutely nothing, even if it was two in the morning in his time zone. He didn't want to worry me but he needed to hear our voices, because something was about to happen. You never forget that tone."

He broke eye contact first, for a quick scan around the dining room. Their table was fairly isolated. "No, ma'am. I wouldn't think you could."

The trill of the communicator watches rang out, in stereo, from two sides of the table.

The Middleman hadn't come unprepared. He pulled out a cell phone, or a good fake, with a look no stronger than mild annoyance. "I'm afraid I have to get this." He stood up and stepped a token few feet from the table with his back turned. Wendy shut down her own watch, below the surface of the table, before it made any more noise.

Lacey thought the interruption was breaking the tension. "What, he's got a phone now? Usually ... you should see it, Mom, it's _cool_. They have these big honking watches, big for a _watch_ but smaller than any cell I've ever seen. Does streaming video, too. Didn't you..." Both Watson women were staring at her. "What?"

Wendy could feel her mother's stare on her. She didn't dare meet it. Glanced over at the Middleman; from the tension in his back and shoulders he wasn't in a trivial conversation either. He caught the changed atmosphere, turned back to the table. "As soon as we can, Ida." Sat down, put down the cell phone without bothering to 'turn it off.'

"I'm sorry." Wendy stared fixedly at the air over the center of the table. "There's just no way." She rested her forearms on the table on either side of the plate. Pushed her sleeves back to the elbow, exposing her watch. Her mother took in air in a sharp gasp, seeing it. _Ask me where I got my photographic memory._

Wendy hadn't given her beloved any warning, or any say. But he seemed as willing to back her play here as in any other combat arena. He rolled his sleeves back too. "There isn't much more to tell, at this point." His low tones were completely frank. His eyes flickered to one side, included Lacey in the family confidences. "I'm called the Middleman. Wendy and I protect people. People in general, the human species. Earth."

"Peter," Mom said numbly. "My husband."

"We're still figuring that out," Wendy said. "It looks like he was ... temping. Helping out, maybe going to take that civilian job he mentioned. The job I have now. He was fighting evil, Mom, no question. He was a hero, like we always knew he was. We just can't tell the Navy any details."

"That would be a problem, wouldn't it." Mom was coming out of shock, into ... rage, Wendy realized. Not fear, not as anything but fuel for the anger.

Lacey held up her hands. "Maybe we should all take a minute and think..."

"Thank you, dear, I've thought." Wendy's mother didn't add _I think very quickly_. Her voice was light, hard, higher in pitch if not -- yet -- in volume. "Not telling the Navy ... but it would be my duty, wouldn't it? As a citizen, as Peter's wife. Lying would be wrong."

"Do _not_, Mom," Wendy said. "I know what you're thinking...."

"I lost my husband." Her eyes were sharp, on the Middleman. "Do you know what I'd do to protect my daughter?"

He didn't flinch. "I don't think there are any limits." Got a merciless nod in return. "I admit I have the easier part... Inez. Walking into danger _with_ her instead of waiting ... At least I can promise myself they'll go through me first. And I do."

"That's not good enough." Mom's anger was still building. "Nowhere near."

"_Sitting right here_," Wendy snarled, forcing her voice low. "He offered the job, yeah. But I _took_ it."

"Then you can take it back."

"Don't go there," Wendy said just as harshly. "I'm not five years old ...."

"You had sense then. Before puberty."

"It's not sex." Wendy couldn't afford the loss of time or momentum for _not just that_. "I really am good, Mom. Olympic-gold-medal good. There's this martial arts teacher ... I can do things you can't imagine. I love painting, I do okay, but at this I'm the _best_. It's too important to let somebody else do it not as good. People, innocent people who don't even know they're in danger, die if we mess up. This matters. It's ... not what I _do_, not any more. It's what I am."

"Like him." Her mother's look at the Middleman was murderous. He took it.

"Like me, now." Wendy didn't look away. "I didn't want to have this conversation. I don't want to choose. But ... do _not_. If you start telling people about weird high-tech watches ... maybe the watch won't be there to be checked out. Maybe I won't be there much either. That's not what I want. But I will if I have to."

Her mother looked... old. Shaky, almost in tears. Wendy made herself stand up. "I'm careful, Mom. I'm always careful. I promise." She walked away. The Middleman left money on the table and followed her.


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven

The Middleman had his jacket and gun belt ready to hand in the car. He was in full uniform again in seconds, before they pulled out of the restaurant parking lot. Wendy just belted in and stared straight ahead. "Roxy Wasserman is at our headquarters now," he said. "She's never done that in all the years she's worked with Middlemen. Ida didn't give many details, but the situation is building to a crisis. We nip this in the bud before noon tomorrow or it will be beyond our capacity." Wendy nodded without moving her gaze.

He kept watching her. "Your mother loves you."

"I've never had a second's doubt of that my whole life. But she doesn't _know_ me, not any more. Mom blames you for that. She's only partly right. I'm not some airhead following you around with a crush. If she thinks she can make me choose ... she's months too late."

"Give her time to come to terms. She's walked this road before, when your father went into harm's way for a living. She'll be proud of you too."

_Her call._ "If we need to kick massive amounts of undersea alien butt, I'm in just the right mood."

-------

A high-pitched sound echoing down the corridor from the headquarters garage to the main control room. Wendy needed a second to identify it as harsh laughter. The Middleman raised a hand for silence and went ahead cautiously in case of a trap.

"... so _exactly_ what a human male of a certain age would look for." Roxy's cultured voice. "I'm not saying her figure is overblown -- not yet -- but it all _bounces_. You can see her in a cheerleader uniform and pigtails."

"Watch it," Ida warned, a snicker under her tone. "He may be an idiot half stoned on his own hormones, but he's _my_ idiot. Does the job a lot better than most of the guys that come through here. I'm really gonna miss him when she gets him killed."

They came around the last corner. Roxy Wasserman had perched herself on the corner of Ida's desk in a fashion-model pose. The android was pouring her a drink from a martini shaker. "I'm shocked," the Middleman said with reproach both personal and professional.

Wendy raised her hand. "I'm not."

"... at a time when the world is in imminent danger, indulging in petty vindictiveness that could undermine the stability of the team..."

"He's way too polite to say get over yourselves." Wendy added. "Is this a real mission or just bonding? Because I know it's hard on you two. Finding girlfriends within three hundred years of your age that you can really talk to."

Roxy showed fangs. Wendy grinned. "Hug and make up?" She held out her arms.

The incubus pointedly turned her back on the girl. "Teasing aside, MM. We know where the artifact is. We know how long you have to deal with it, which isn't long. And we know why your humans couldn't find the Dagon artifact in that airplane, not until they removed the bodies from the wreckage. More soul magic."

Wendy's snark deserted her. "My _dad_ was in love with a Middleman?"

Roxy smiled unkindly. "So adorable. No, more of the brothers-in-arms aspect."

"Glomar Explorer!" the Middleman said quietly. "Of course. Their last thoughts must have been a shared resolve to keep the artifact out of hostile hands at any cost. Even in death. Was that enough to keep it hidden and harmless?"

"Apparently it was, until your people took the bodies away," Roxy said. "Once they were gone, the artifact was able to destroy technological toys around it again, and the divers had to give up. The Deep Ones, or their hybrids, must have been waiting."

"I could start to like magic if it's going to make _sense_ like that," Ida said. "Rox, I want to hear more about hemlock. Friday good for you?"

"You said we're short on time," the Middleman broke in. "Give us the location, give us the deadline."

"Of course, darling." Roxy turned serious. "Dear Ida said she'd been looking for a place along the coast that was suddenly showing chronic power outages and failures of technology. But mystical beings who do that kind of damage are accustomed to doing without modern conveniences. I cast a finding spell that was more successful." She looked smug. "A New Age commune about fifty miles to the north, the Children of Mother Ocean. They offer back-to-nature spa treatments, meditation retreats, that sort of thing, which keeps them more or less in touch with the outside world. But most of the commune is off limits to outsiders. Deep One hybrids lose their human appearance as they get older. They're hiding in those closed areas, I'm sure of it."

"She's not the _only_ one with hard data, once we were looking in the right place," Ida said with faint irritation. Wendy grinned. She hadn't expected the best-buddy status to last long without a common target to slander. "Got some more satellite images. I did a map of the commune layout; judging by the living quarters there could be up to two hundred individuals in residence. That's not a hippie campsite, that's a _town_. No electric lines running to it, no treated water supply. Hardly any grocery supplies going in, although there seems to be some kind of local store. The written materials we've been able to find about the commune, they talk about living off the ocean bounty and that kind of crap. I guess they mean it."

Roxy took over the story. "During the Innsmouth Incident on the east cost, the hybrids infiltrated an isolated fishing village. From the 1800's to 1928; isolation really _meant_ something back then. This new cover story gives them the same access to land without raising questions about their lack of power and wi-fi access. That group was detected by some locals and stopped by a US government agency -- you aren't the only ones who can handle esoteric problems, MM. But this group seems to be playing smarter."

"What are they going to do if we don't slap them down and take their whammy?" Wendy asked.

"Everything they were bred to do," Roxy said. "Without it they were ... well, like fish out of water. Unable to breed more hybrids, unable to complete the transformation to full Deep One form, unable to live underwater for more than a day. Now that they have it back, they can make a solid beachhead. A permanent sore on dry land where your technology can't work, only magic. And that zone will spread like a cancer. They won't make your world their own in a day, or a year, but their influence will grow. It was stopped and hushed up at Innsmouth. This time, even if some human power overwhelms them -- it would take an army by then -- there'd be no keeping it quiet."

"Ordinary people are worried enough when they suspect there _might_ be a few aliens from space visiting," the Middleman said. "Certain knowledge of a whole species permanently sharing the planet with us, invulnerable to our best weapons ... the culture isn't ready. May never be ready."

"I wouldn't _have_ to care, but you get so upset." Something real lurked behind Roxy's cool tones. Wendy couldn't dismiss the incubus as unfeeling, as much as she'd like to. "There's still time -- barely -- for you to handle this yourselves. The hybrids will have to re-consecrate the Dagon statue before they can use it again. Being Deep Ones they're naturally ruled by the element of Water, which in turn defines their astrological planet. Do you know what tonight is, from a magical standpoint?"

"The night of the full moon," Wendy said.

Everyone stared at her. "What? I can't know things? Lacey did the neo-Pagan thing for nearly a year. She was always having esbats at the sublet, which meant I had to go someplace else until after midnight. I kept track of phases of the moon because nobody in the coven was organized enough to give me advance warning. So it goes down tonight?"

Roxy looked a bit impressed in spite of herself. "Close. The Deep Ones are tuned to the tidal cycle rather than directly to the phases of the moon. The two things track each other but rarely match exactly. _She_ had the sense to give me exact dates," Roxy gestured toward Ida. "It's a bit less than a lunar month since the artifact went back to its original owners. Three of the four points of the cycle -- midpoint of neap tide, lowest point of spring tide, midpoint of neap tide again -- have already passed. The highest point of spring tides will complete the tidal month."

Wendy opened her mouth. Roxy waved sharply. "Get the sailor to explain the details. Later. The point is, their ritual will have to be completed at high tide..."

The Middleman glanced at Ida. "Eleven forty-eight local time tomorrow morning," she said.

"Thank you. Tactical details?"

"I have that protective shielding you asked for." Roxy went to a table across the room. "You're lucky I had the kiln-dried rowan wood on hand." She brought them a finely made wooden box, a bit more than a foot long and octagonal in cross-section. A woven strap was attached to each end; the over-all shape something like a small duffel bag. The top opened on copper hinges. "I hope those measurements were reasonably accurate," Roxy said. "The box only shields when it's closed and locked. Electrum alloy lining, bronze sigils of binding at either end."

Wendy leaned in. "Smells like sweat socks."

"Smoke-dried valerian. I mixed Earth and Fire symbols wherever I could."

"You told us once that water is a stronger element than earth," the Middleman said.

"It is, by itself. But your personal Element is Earth," Roxy pronounced the capital letters, "and _that_ _one_ is Fire. We've got to work with that, not against it, to draw on your personal bindings."

"You make that sound really dirty," Wendy complained.

Roxy looked smug. "I play to my strengths, darling." She looked across at the Middleman, more serious now "I suggest you do the same. Your super-scientific toys won't work inside the hybrid village until the artifact is safely encased. Don't even try. Treat it like a war, not a hero's quest. They'll fight to the last ... entity ... because otherwise their settlement is dead. You won't get through this on sneaky and clever."

He looked troubled. "You can't be sure of that."

"I can. I am. This is a place for your _old_ skill set. Kill them. On sight. In large groups, with military weapons. Don't pretend you can avoid it, not this time. Or you won't survive." She nodded toward Wendy. "And your little friend won't be even that lucky."

They exchanged a look. Past missions, even fighting humans, Wendy's sex had only meant the advantage of getting underestimated. Being captured hadn't put her in any more danger than her boss.

Wendy had been a girl all her life. Background dread of men Doing Things wasn't new. The novelty was the Sensei-Ping-born belief that she could fight and win. But the Middleman ... had been keeping different fears in watertight compartments, she could see. _I keep thinking I've got a grip ... then something new whips around and hits me._

"Who says _your_ butt is safe, anyway? They've got girl hybrids, I guess, with no better manners." A look dared Roxy to contradict her. "Objectively, you're a whole lot hotter than I am."

He didn't believe her, not the words and not the tone. But the war between chivalry and partnership was long over. The Middleman nodded stiffly, hiding as much emotion as he could.

"How does that saying go?" Roxy said lightly. "Nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure."

The incubus knew him well. Wendy gave her credit for being really worried, not trying to subvert his Middle-principles for fun. A muscle moved in his jaw, clenched tight, but his expression didn't change. "We'll look at all the tactical options," he said. "This doesn't have to be war. I hope. I'm not comfortable killing sentient beings."

Roxy's eyes moved. "You?"

"I don't like it either. I've done it. I can do it again." The girl and the demon looked at each other. Shared a feral, female awareness that nobility to the conquered foe was a privilege of people who were impressive threats. Absent that advantage, sometimes survival meant hitting without warning, again and again until the twitching stopped. "We'll be fine." A promise.


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight

Another one of the Middle-rooms, or a large Middle-closet, was full of all kinds of clothes. A big percentage were Wendy's size. She could imagine Ida having to alter stuff to fit or order new ones, bitching all the way because it meant treating her as a permanent addition to the team. A vaguely Russian-looking blouse in heavy cotton gauze sparked an idea. "I'm going to be Lacey," she said.

Profound silence behind her, then "you might want to repeat that."

Wendy grinned. "I'm not challenging your total lack of kink. I mean for a cover story I'm going to be someone a lot like Lacey. Or the way people _think_ Lacey is when they don't know her. Featherbrained, all emotion and no rationality, jumping onto whatever Dances With Credit Cards new age stuff is the latest thing." She found blousy pants in the same fabric. At some point some Middle must have been under cover at a Renaissance fair. Wendy turned away from the clothes. "Not to be mean, but usually our cover stories are not so hot. Fish and Wildlife, NASA, any set of badges pulled out of a hat. We need to do better." She studied the outfit. "I'd have to be an idiot to wear this in public, so it's perfect. I'm a crystal-power flake who is, OMG, so interested in the Children of Mother Ocean retreat center I absolutely have to see it right now. New Age flavor of the month. Play it up and the character doesn't even need an ID. And you're..." she considered. "Ground control. You think every bit of it is crap, but you're coming with me to make sure I don't wind up with all my credit cards maxed out or sold to a cult or something."

He nodded. "Like the sorority business, your half-brother the campus security guard."

Wendy moved closer until one of them shivered. "Way wrong reflexes, any more. Husband. You know I'm a complete ditz, but you just can't resist my wiles."

He looked more innocent than usual. "And the cover story?"

Wendy hit him lightly in the chest. "You're ... an aerospace engineer would be about the right tone, I think. Named Bob. Maybe Mark. Something so absolutely white-bread Midwest that you'd break out in a rash if you ever went to Seattle. _Seattle_ would break out in a rash."

He moved to a wall panel opposite the door. It rotated to show a honeycomb of tiny jewelry compartments. "An engineer would insist on titanium." Slipped on the larger dull-silver ring, handed her the smaller one. Wendy held it and breathed.

The Middleman watched her. "Name the day. Name the minute. Your mother's in town, the timing makes good sense."

"Maybe she's still here." Phone calls to the sublet had gotten nothing but the machine; Wendy tried to believe they were just out. She'd left a basic message not to worry, nothing would happen tonight.

"It can't give us a thing we don't already have." Wendy's tone wasn't as certain as she might have wished. Tried again. "You said once that you can't share a name without having a name."

The Middleman's expression was naked and serious, even for him. "You're a modern woman. You might not change your name for anyone."

"The point is, you don't say anything you don't mean. Not to me." Wendy slid the smaller band on herself. "I've made promises. You remember." In the presence of umpteen dead Middlemen; holy ground. "But you breathe a little easier that it's not _that_ promise. Even when we live like married every day. As if it would hurt you a little less, or me a little less, comes a really bad day. You can just about manage letting a partner take half the risks. Almost half. A wife... everything in you would say _protect_ whether it made sense or not. I don't want you killed fighting your reflexes. I don't even want you feeling guilty.

"Paperwork doesn't matter. You'd take a hit in the honor if you changed that much for me. _That_ matters."

His relief was subtle, but Wendy knew she'd said the right thing. He let her hands go. "Maybe I should take the completely irrational persona."

"Things don't have to make sense to be true. Trust me. I'm an artist."

He touched her face, almost too lightly to feel. Picked up a hideous green tie. "Engineer-like?"

Wendy breathed. "So campy it almost looks ironic. Try the one with Planck's Constant all over it."

------

Her dad had taught her to shoot, off and on, from the age of ten. The Middleman had checked her proficiency and her safety with firearms as part of her basic training. She'd carried around a lethal weapon -- if not this kind -- most days since she'd joined the Middles. But Wendy had never put on a regular, lead-and-gunpowder gun in the expectation of using it on people. _Hey, no virgins here_. She'd killed a man with a harpoon gun on one mission. Killed another, for some definitions of kill, by ramming a sharp blade through his heart and letting him splatter. _At least this won't be up close and personal._

The solid weight of the gun didn't match her organic-cotton blousy shirt and pants. She clipped it to the back of her belt , covered it with a long lumpy hand-knit vest. "Ready."

They'd stopped under a road sign, _Children of Ocean Retreat Center 2 Miles_, for a last minute polishing of roles. The Middleman had on a worn but tidy sweatshirt -- MIT -- and jeans so well-kept they practically had a crease. "Heads up display, Ida," he said.

The windshield went half-opaque, replacing the view in front of the car with a satellite image of this part of the coast. "It's not real time. Even satellites are starting to have trouble seeing _into_ the anti-tech field," Ida said through their watches. "But the still image is only ten minutes old." It zoomed in on a rocky area. At closer range they saw a semicircle filled with a virulent swampy green. "Ten-foot wall between them and the outside world," Ida said. The straight side facing the ocean was open. A tighter zoom showed rows of buildings inside the compound. The semicircular wall broke at one point, a gravel parking area outside the wall and a multi-sided building just inside the wall. "Visitor center," Ida said. "If you're gonna talk your way in instead of bringing in the heavy artillery, that's where." Another zoom. At the focus of the semicircle, open to the rocky beach, was a large clear area like a town square. A hundred or hundred and fifty people -- presumably people, their straight-down images were blurs the size of thumbtacks -- gathered in tight, organized arcs around a central platform. "Pretty sure that's the whole damn batch," Ida said.

"Not that I've ever seen an alien ritual to re-consecrate an ancient idol," Wendy said. "But that's what one looks like. We should hurry."

"We are." The Middleman put the car back in gear.

----

The Middlewatches went dead a hundred yards from the front gate. The car engine coughed and sputtered, but they'd expected that. They coasted into the gravel entry area on the last bit of momentum.

----

The Children of Mother Ocean Visitor Center was all wood, a semi-openwork structure like a huge gazebo. The sky was overcast with a gray haze growing thicker by the minute, the air saturated with humidity. The wooden building and the fence behind it were streaked with moss and algae. The background scent was less "wetlands" than "swamp." A girl in long sloppy Earth-friendly clothes started pounding on the outside of the door. Her dark hair was an explosion of curls in the wet air. Six or seven silver necklaces jangled when she moved. A purse-sized wooden box on a hand-woven strap dangled from her shoulder. "Hello? Anybody? Let all portals open unto True Seekers ... The people at the herb shop _said_ you're open Saturdays!" More jingling. "I can see somebody moving around in there!" She seemed prepared to keep it up forever.

A visibly older man (physical age gap around ten years; emotional maturity, twenty and counting) followed her but stopped a few feet short of the door. "Darling." The tone mixed indulgence and embarrassment. "Maybe this isn't a good time." The knocking didn't pause.

A shape came closer to the door, inside the unlighted building. "We're, uh, closed." The voice was thick and hoarse. "So sorry, miss. Private ceremony, initiates only."

She grinned joyfully. "That is _so_ great! I've never seen one of those!"

An uncomfortable pause. "You can't come in."

The man stepped up beside her. "Listen, you. My wife and I drove all the way from Santa Barbara to get here. We're not going away until we've seen your crystals or snake oil or whatever you're selling."

"Please?" she put in, all charm. "We won't be in the way."

"Hmm." After a few seconds, the door rattled open. "Sorry to be rude. Let me give you some of our literature."

Wendy Watson walked lightly, every sense alert, as she stepped into enemy territory. The Middleman was behind her, covering her blind spot. Whether it was magic or wishful thinking, Wendy felt his presence almost as clearly as skin-to-skin contact.

She was sweating under the gun at the small of her back, in spite of the clammy air.

The ... person who'd opened the door wasn't much taller than she was, but bulky and rounded. Other details were lost; he wore a long, vaguely monk-like homespun robe with a hood and a veil. Even his hands were covered in cloth gloves. "Be welcome," he said. "This ..." a gesture at the heavy clothing, "Is ... preparation. The first Ceremony of Rebirth in many years. We will become one with our ancestors in the eternal glory of Ocean, in the depths." Wendy felt the hidden eyes were staring at her more directly. "A true seeker, you said ... with the rebirth we will be able to share our gifts with the world of dry land. You come at an auspicious moment." The veil turned toward the Middleman. "Even without a predisposition to believe ... we can prove what we say. The oneness with deepest Nature, all the secret knowledge of the ancients." The wall opposite the door had a wide window hidden behind a wicker screen; the "Child of Mother Ocean" started moving it aside. "You can see the ceremony from here, come closer."

When the Middleman came forward the other stepped to the side, at an angle, coming up a little behind him. One gloved hand moved...

The Middleman moved faster. He was imposing enough in an ordinary fight. The shift from complete stillness to explosive speed could be outright terrifying. A twist, an audible pop. The Deep One hybrid made a wet, pained noise.

A small object hit the floor. It was a glitteringly sharp dagger of some dark metal, curved like a fang.

"Color out of space!" He almost sounded cheerful; no more pretenses. "If you _had_ gotten Wendy alone, she'd have made you sorry." Toed the knife aside with disgust.

"You said we were a long way from home," Wendy said. "They haven't gotten any, so to speak, new blood in years. He couldn't wait." She got a fistful of veil. "Let's see what kind of fish we caught."

Under the cloth, their tour guide was about halfway between a human being and the Deep One from the statue. A head that had probably started out normal human was half-bald in random patches, a swept-back point in the skull clearly visible. Round, bigger-than-human eyes with lashless lids. His skin wasn't just hairless, most places, but subtly translucent like a frog's. The thought of touching it made her queasy. Wendy shook the creature by his clothes. "What's the story, Guppy-boy?"

"Filthy _mammals_." The wide, shallow-chinned mouth showed conical teeth. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"Half-human descendents of Deep Ones," the Middleman said flatly. "From the black abysses of Cyclopean and many-columned Y'ha-nthlei. Servants of that which sleeps dead and dreaming at R'lyeh."

Wendy grinned. "We read up. Oh, and say hi. He's the Middleman."

The hybrid showed teeth; Wendy couldn't guess if it meant fear or threat. "We killed the Middleman. Both of them. We managed that, anyway."

"There's always another Middleman," the latest version said. "Keep that in mind. This whole settlement is a violation of treaty, potentially an act of war. Deep Ones are required to leave the top kilometer of the oceans and all of dry land to human beings."

"Also you're all dumb." Wendy added. "What did they do, send you the _only_ magic make-a-hybrid statue? Or you never thought of getting Grandma on the Fish-Phone and asking for another one?"

The expression this time was recognizably human contempt. "Why should our elders correct our mistakes? If we want to share their immortality, we have to earn it."

"Nice people," Wendy remarked. "I see why you want in the club."

"He means it, using 'mammal' as an insult," the Middleman said. "In their pure state, Deep Ones are egg layers. They don't have the biological imperative to look after their offspring that's built into humans. More like sharks or crocodiles. The hatchlings have to fend for themselves. Sink or swim, metaphorically."

Wendy could have felt for him, if it hadn't been for the dagger. "You guys are just as ... _gross_ to the Deep Ones for being part people as you are to us for being part fish," she said quietly. "Screwed from both directions."

The hybrid picked up on the momentary empathy. Tried to grasp it like someone guessing their way through a foreign language. "Unless the avatar, the _link_ purges the contamination of land from us," it said urgently. "We must have it. Every last one here. The pure-bloods went home when we failed by losing the link. The humans we bred with..." It stopped.

The Middleman leaned a little closer. "Interesting sentence. Go on and finish it. What happened to your human parents?"

The hybrid didn't speak. "At Innsmouth your people took an entire town," the Middleman said. "Bribed the leading citizens with treasure and promises of power. Bribed a few outsiders to marry hybrids by the same means, or tricked them. Townspeople who refused disappeared. But there wasn't a town _here_ before you came ashore. How many human members of your 'cult' were volunteers? Any of them? Are any of them alive now?"

"We need the avatar to purify ourselves," the hybrid said. "Only that. Let us transform, and ..."

"And you'll go right back to speed-dating," Wendy said. "Like you wanted to with me."

A muscle worked in the Middleman's jaw at the reminder, but he kept focus. "This ends," he said. "Today. I don't want to kill anyone, any species. Give back the idol and we'll go. Your group can stay here, provided you leave the general population alone."

"Not even half alive," the hybrid snarled.

"Not even half our problem," Wendy shot back.

"Or you can fight. I don't recommend that course of action," the Middleman said without raising his voice.

The hybrid moved then, with the speed of utter desperation. Two wild roundhouse swings at the Middleman that barely needed blocking. Switched directions to grab at Wendy as the more vulnerable target. She deflected and caught the arm but didn't put on elbow-breaking pressure.

The Middleman had ages -- at least half a second -- to get his gun out. No reason to touch the trigger. He slashed sideways, blackjacking the hybrid across the back of the skull with the heavy steel. It dropped to the floor. "Check the layout. I'll tie him up."

Wendy went to the window, slid the wicker panel slightly. "Actually, he was telling the truth about the view." They were at the apex of the semi-circular compound. Wendy could see straight down a wide gravel path to a crude platform, about six feet high, at the water's edge.

As they'd seen from the satellite picture, every hybrid in the half-human colony was gathered around the platform in concentric arcs. All of them wore heavy robes and hoods like the welcoming committee. An altar on the platform held a small black object. Too far away to see clearly, but Wendy had seen its picture. "Right there."

She looked back. The Middleman had stripped all the robes off their prisoner.

"Crap," Wendy said. "Aren't you a little tall for a stormtrooper?"

"It's a practical approach. If he was detailed to lock the outer gate, he'd go on and join the ceremony." The Middleman leaned in for a look through the edge of the window. "I don't see any alternative except a ranged attack."

They'd prepared for everything. The Middle-armory held a wide selection of gear, including simple but solidly designed rifles. He'd said they were standard-issue from World War II, for snipers; the guns were in perfect condition. The Middleman had checked Wendy out on them, with top-notch results that surprised neither of them. Shooting a rifle from a fixed position was child's play compared to shooting a pistol accurately. _Fish in a barrel._ Two of them waited in the Middlemobile's trunk, with a few hundred rounds of ammunition. And the visitor center, slightly elevated with a panoramic view of the town square, would make a good sniper nest.

"I'll break _one_ out," Wendy said. "You do the disguise thing, I'll cover you. If they catch on, I can reach out and touch someone."

"It's not like target shooting," the Middleman said gravely. "Or even like killing in the heat of combat. You'll feel it."

"Get back here with the gizmo, in one piece." Wendy handed him the magic-proof wooden container. "Afterward I can have hysterics for a week."

He took it. "They're probably in the process of regaining their mystic link with the artifact. That link will be cut like a guillotine if I get it into Roxy's box. That might disorient them enough for an easy getaway."

"A little less maybe and probably before I panic and go clock-tower." The moment was wrong for a lover's kiss. "Be careful, Boss."

"I always am." He picked up the armful of robes.


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine

Wendy Watson had a two-inch-wide slit to see through, at the edge of a window, toward the altar of a demonic undersea god. Its half-human followers, over a hundred of them, were gathered eagerly around the platform. The Middleman, her boss and incidentally the love of her life, moved through the crowd in disguise. He carried a box that could contain and shut down the mystically powerful idol on the altar. Get to it, steal it, get out again alive. Another Middleman, years ago, had failed at the third step. Wendy's father had died alongside him.

Her cheek rested on the cool, smooth wood of a rifle stock. The telescopic sight brought the altar so close she could see the coarse weave of the hybrids' ceremonial robes. _Not today_.

Wendy spared a glance at a much closer hybrid, efficiently hog-tied on the floor behind her. 'Frog-lizard' seemed to cover it. Besides a basic human body shape, the creature was nauseatingly alien. Huge round eyes, hairless skin. Most of it had the moist translucency of a frog's. Fine-toothed ridges of heavier, scaly skin covered the top of its shoulders, the skin over the collarbones, a broad flat patch on the sternum. With its long flowing robes 'borrowed,' Wendy could see that the creature had no nipples or belly button. It still wore a folded loincloth, which was absolutely fine with her.

"Sit tight, stay calm," Wendy said. "You'll be griping to your buddies in a couple of hours over algae beers or whatever. He told the truth; we won't kill anybody if we can get out of it." She thought. "If he'd made a promise to a ... spider or a maggot, he'd keep it. That lets you in too."

Gunfire. Wendy, her face a death mask, tore the wicker screen off the window. The robed hybrids were storming over their own altar, or a standing figure close to it, piling on like a football team. Another pistol shot in the middle of the chaos; one of them fell backward. Wendy moved the rifle bolt, sighted. She couldn't mistake the one tall human among the hunched shapes. One trigger squeeze, and the hybrid closest behind him lost most of its head.

Slapped the bolt for her second shot. Rough hands dragged her away from the window before she could fire. The hybrid they'd tied up threw her against the far wall. The lizard scales snagged and tore at her flimsy gauze clothes. Another serrated ridge of them along the outside of his forearms, from wrist to elbow-point. _That's how._ And he'd timed his escape well.

She'd heard three pistol shots, nothing since. "Don't hurt him," Wendy said urgently. "Don't let _them_ hurt him. I surrender. We both surrender." Both her guns were out of reach. She gripped the high collar of her hippie blouse in both hands, yanked. The cotton tore all the way to the shirt hem.

The hybrid's panting-dog expression was probably a smile. It shouted gurgling, sibilant words out through the open window. "Wise choice," it said. "We'll treat you like a queen. Your children will live a thousand years."

"Is that so." Wendy took a measured breath. "Then I've got a nice surprise for you." She covered the creature's eyes with the palms of her hands.

The natural magic clinging to her skin seared him like a steak, without the pleasant smell. Wendy followed when it flinched back, kept contact until the hybrid crawled away screaming. "Well, _I _like it." Wendy didn't know, didn't care, if she'd blinded it-him or only gotten the eyelids. She ran back to the window.

Her Middleman was still alive, still fighting. If her mock surrender had caused any break in the melee, it was over. Everything moved too fast. Wendy didn't dare shoot again. The fraction of a second between aiming and the bullet's arrival could put his head downrange instead of an enemy's. His skin must be burning the hybrid mob too, but it didn't stop them. The Navy SEAL part of him had full ascendancy. Wendy had never seen him fight to kill before, not even in the Yucatan. He was only alive, despite his skill, because most of them were unarmed and unprepared for trouble.

A hybrid behind swung a long improvised club at the Middleman's head. Some kind of scrap wood with one blunt end and one jagged one. It might as well have handed the weapon over gift-wrapped.

The blur of motion now had nothing of Sensei Ping in it. _That infantry thing with bayonets and rifle butts._ The sharp end wasn't very sharp; tearing instead of clean stabs. The most human ones had red blood, the most Deep One-like a green ichor. The half-changed ones somewhere in between, a septic-looking tan.

_Distract them._ Wendy hauled her hybrid upright. Tipped him through the window, which had a six or eight foot drop on the village side. "Hey, Sleestaks!" She shed the rags of her shirt and dove out toward a small group. Sniper rifle in hand; Wendy could club at a beginner's level, anyway. Rolled out of her landing ... _mud is soft to fall in too_ ... and straight at them.

Soul-magic wasn't armor, but the ones who clawed at her arms and back got hurt worse than she did. They fell back when she slapped and backhanded their faces like some girlish Barbie-fight. The Middleman saw her coming and concentrated on the ones directly in front of him, on the line between himself and Wendy.

The creatures were human enough to lose their nerve. Human enough that when one bolted, dragging a shattered leg behind it, the panic spread. Less than a minute later the square was empty except for the Middleman and the casualties.

Wendy was running out of adrenalin. She felt her sore muscles now, something wrong in her right knee that was more than soreness. Breath searing her overworked lungs like magic. Heart-pounding fear. She kept moving toward the Middleman. "Hope to hell... _box_," she gasped.

"Right here." No time to say anything personal but his eyes glowed with pride, gratitude for her safety. The Middleman scooped up the box and climbed the platform. The artifact in reach at last on the altar. Smooth flowing lines like something Art Deco, but repulsive on an ancient, visceral level. Its material was a deep unreflecting black, like a three-dimensional hole into some other universe.

The Middleman picked it up, dropped it instantly. The same sizzling noise they'd been inflicting on the hybrids. "I'm all right." He folded one of the ceremonial robes, used it to shield his burned hands like a potholder. The cloth smoked and charred until he had to let go again. "This magic seems to work both ways. I think I'm outclassed."

Wendy climbed up beside him. "We need tongs. A piece of rope with a slip knot. Something."

"No time." He glanced at the edges of the square. "Most of them aren't seriously hurt. They'll realize that in no time." Closed his eyes. "Hold the box open."

The Middleman probably could smother his own reflexes enough to carry the thing, even if it took his hands off. Wendy liked his hands. "Or. It's stronger when we're touching each other. You remember."

"That I do." His expression softened.

Some of the creatures had claws; the front of his shirt was ripped open too. Wendy slid into the circle of his arms, leaned back skin to skin. _We'll have a nasty job even opening the first-aid kit if this doesn't work_. All four of their hands reaching out. "On three."

----

The illegal sublet that Lacey Thornfield mostly had to herself, these days, was quiet. All the emotion -- loud speeches to an absent daughter, rash promises, tears -- had come and gone last night. Lacey sat at the breakfast table pretending to drink a calming herbal tea. Inez Watson, sitting opposite with a stone-cold cup of her own, wasn't even pretending.

The door opened. Wendy Watson staggered in bruised, limping, grimy, bloody in a few spots. The man behind her, in much the same condition, set a cylindrical wooden box down on the floor.

Wendy stretched out one arm, showed the Middlewatch glowing and working perfectly on her wrist. Grinning with the joy and smugness of a cat bringing home a dead bird. "Hey, Mom. Lace. Guess what _we_ did."

-----

Epilog

Dr. Crane, U.S. Navy pathologist, sorted through his notes. This 'next-of-kin' meeting was going much better than the last one he'd held. "We were very happy to get your message, Mrs. Idamura. Speaking personally, it always breaks my heart when I have to give up on an identification. People deserve to go home to their families and friends." He slid the sealed bronze urn across the table.

"Sergeant Idamura," the spectacularly ugly older woman corrected him. Every detail of her full-dress police uniform was gleaming perfect. Dr. Crane liked her for the touch of formality; it showed respect. She handled the urn with a care that didn't match her harsh manner; she'd clearly known the man personally. "Yeah, Chris Elmedio was one of the best plainclothes detectives the West Arkham PD ever had. He doesn't have any living relatives now, but the mayor was one of his best friends. There's gonna be a little memorial at police headquarters with his ashes. We thought that was fitting for a guy who was never really off duty. We won't forget him." Her eyes moved. "I can't believe _you_ called him some kind of dope runner."

Captain Hedison, ONI, cleared his throat. "The evidence we had to go on at the time ... obviously I'm delighted we were mistaken. Captain Watson's family will be pleased too. Apparently they didn't know themselves that he was helping your detective."

"Civilians are so damn disorganized," Idamura said. "But what are you gonna do? Same thing with your bulletin trying to get ID on your John Doe. This Cuban chick in the office, civilian clerk, just plain _lost_ it. Her skinny can would be out on the street if I had my way." A shrug. "As long as the screwup got fixed. You guys are only human."

----

Inez Watson hadn't trusted her husband's urn to the mercies of airport baggage handling. She carried it cradled in one arm instead of more usual carry-on luggage. Her daughter and her ... daughter's friend were in full uniform, apart from laser guns, as their own kind of tribute. She barely stopped herself from straightening Wendy's shirt collar a little. Turned to the tall man. "I'm still not sure what to call you."

"Whatever you prefer," the Middleman said gravely. A slight wince. "Within reason."

Inez smiled a little. Lacey Thornfield, now that she had full information, kept trying "Middie" over everyone else's objections. "Mike suits you, I think. Doesn't call for too many explanations." Inez's hand wanted to linger on his shoulder. There was no denying Wendy had found a handsome one. "Your word; they'll go through you first."

He nodded. Wendy elbowed him aside to face her mother directly. "Hey. Not so shabby here myself."

"Of course not." Inez had been putting off one other job until the last moment. The last moment was here. She brought a sealed silver vial from her purse and handed it to Wendy. Squeezed her daughter's hand over it a long moment before letting go. "You're sure this respects your father's memory."

"He stood guard for ten years," the Middleman said. "Protecting the human race beyond anything he'd ever promised to do. He still can. I hope I can be that ... serviceable in some way when it's my time."

"Don't be in such a rush," Wendy said quickly. "Sorry, mom. That's just how he talks."

"I know." _And he never said a truer word when he called you valiant_. Inez embraced her warrior daughter. A watery smile. "Make me proud."

-----

Given the existence of the Middle-jet, -submarine, and -powered armor, the Middle-ocean-going-sailboat wasn't all that surprising. The Middleman stood easily on the shifting deck -- his Navy side was in charge today -- and checked a brass sextant against a vintage mechanical clock.

"The GPS is working just fine," Wendy remarked, from the base of the mast. "Also, a perfectly good thing called an 'engine' back there. All the cool kids use them these days."

"Just being cautious. Belt and suspenders." He unwrapped a rope from what was apparently a belaying pin. "Can you haul this line to port a few meters? No, _my_ left."

Wendy fastened it at the new spot. "Actually this is kind of fun, if we weren't on the job."

A smile like sunlight. "Then we'll do it again sometime." He waved over the railing. "Anywhere here should be fine. "We're over the subduction zone between the Pacific and North American tectonic plates; parallels the San Andreas Fault. In the short term, the container will be buried in silt at the ocean bottom. In the long term -- I mean that in the full geological sense of the word -- it'll disappear into the molten mantle under the Earth's crust. I think even the Deep Ones will find that hard to deal with."

"Roxy said, fire and earth." Wendy started unfastening a container clamped to the deck. Two layers of welded titanium, weighted with cast iron, packed solid with waterproof insulation around a custom-made rowan wood box. And a bronze funeral urn, and a small silver vial. Wendy laid her hands on top of the container. "There ought to be words for a time like this. There ought to be some kind of, I don't know. Parade. Fireworks. Medals."

"That's not what they signed up for," the Middleman said. "The world is still here, that's their reward. You know what they did, and I know; that's enough."

He laid his hands on the box next to Wendy's. Glanced across at an unrailed edge of the deck. "On three."

-------

Acknowledgements:

First and most obviously, H.P. Lovecraft's classic "Shadow Over Innsmouth." A few course corrections here and there from Charles Stross' _The Jennifer Morgue_. Which if you haven't read it, why not? In fact, start with _The Atrocity Archive_; these characters are clearly operating in the Middleman's world or one very much like it. There's a third book in the set coming out soon.

The caustic effects of True Love come from the Harry Dresden series by Jim Butcher, who also deserves your reading time, and book money. A Harry-Wendy snarking contest would be something to see.


End file.
